


The Big Reveal

by queenmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmycroft/pseuds/queenmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where everyone has a secret. (Crack; refined crack, but crack nonetheless.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give a shoutout to the beautiful didyousaychocolate for being a wonderful consulting author and beta for this fic!

“The truth, John,” Mycroft started with a small smile on his otherwise blank face,“ is that my brother is a plant.”

“What, you mean like a spy?”

“No, John. I mean like a tree.”

That was the moment John Watson’s life stopped making sense.

* * *

Mycroft stared at it from over his plate, unable to even touch his breakfast. “Sweetie, your pancakes are getting cold,” his mother scolded from across the table. He didn’t move, and she sighed. “Why won’t you eat your breakfast, Mycroft? It’s your favorite.” Oh, she knew very well why not. As if she couldn’t see him staring at that— that—

“Mummy, what _is_ that.”

“Why, it’s a plant, Mycroft,” she said, still smiling in that way that meant he was doing something amusing, and he damned the fact that he was still so young.

“I can see that, Mummy. A young potted _didierea madagascariensis_. I meant, Mummy, _why_?” He tried very hard to not whigne the last word, because he was officially eight years old now, and eight year olds don’t stoop to whigning.

“Why? It’s your birthday, of course,” she said, still with the smile.

“But why _that_.” He had wanted a high powered telescope, and she knew he had wanted a high powered telescope, and he damn well wanted to know why instead there was a tree, something that was for all intents and purposes the exact opposite, on the table where his proper present should have been.

“Because it’ll be good for you, Mycroft. Something for you learn to nurture and take care of,” she said as she pulled his plate away and started cutting his pancakes up for him. He wanted to protest but there were more pressing matters.

“I already have a cat for that, Mummy.”

His mother just shook her head and continued cutting. “It isn’t the same with Ismene, dear. She’s very willful. She does as she pleases; this plant, though, will be relying entirely on you.” She smiled at him again as she pushed his plate back. He sighed and picked up his fork, entirely unamused by what she was trying to do, then glared back over at the plant, thinking to himself that if he didn’t get the telescope with his evening presents, he’d just have to find a way to get one himself.

Mycroft figured such a ridiculous gift required a ridiculous name; he decided right then and there to call it Sherlock.

* * *

_Dull_. If plants had the ability to sigh, as he had witnessed the young boy - Mycroft, he recalled - do just a moment before, Sherlock would have done so repeatedly. Unceasingly. He would have sighed with his every breath.

Sherlock sat there and sulked for approximately seven hours and forty-three minutes, while Mycroft and Mummy were out of the dining room, presumably visiting others of their kind to celebrate Mycroft’s birthday.

_Birthday_ , Sherlock sneered mentally. Nobody ever celebrated Sherlock’s _birthday_ , whenever it may have been. Sherlock was woefully uncertain of the exact process of _didierea madagascariensis_ reproduction, as the only being in The Greenhouse who knew such facts was unable to perceive the wavelength at which Sherlock spoke. Thought. Exhaled. Irrelevant.

Sherlock’s spines twitched imperceptibly when Mummy and Mycroft re-entered the dining room later that evening. Sherlock could tell from the younger homo sapiens’ gait that Mycroft had quickly grown weary of his birthday celebrations - presumably because he had not gotten what he had requested, which to Sherlock appeared to be some gadget both scientific and violating - a spy recorder, perhaps? Mummy had gotten it for him, obviously, but he did not know this yet.

Mycroft groaned. Ah, it appeared he had overindulged in his - Sherlock extended his perceptive field - chocolate, _how pedestrian_ \- birthday cake. He would take a nap before tea.

“Mycroft Holmes,” said Mummy sternly, as the young boy crossed the kitchen, “please take your present upstairs.”

“Yes, mummy.” Mycroft came over to Sherlock, who attempted - in vain, of course - to flinch away. Mycroft’s arms wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s pot, and carried him towards the - now terrifyingly steep, possibly fatal - staircase.

* * *

Sherlock sat uselessly in Mycroft’s room for days upon days. He’d stare out the window at the passersby and predict their life stories, he’d listen to Mycroft whinge about his classmates when he got home from school and most importantly he would stubbornly refuse to grow. “So then I told Mrs. Hayward, I _told_ her, Barnby had been sneaking sweets from her desk all afternoon, and she went over to his desk and gave him a good rapping on the knuckles!” Mycroft chuckled with delight as the door opened.

“Mycroft, sweetie, time for bed!”

“Yes Mummy!” Mycroft turned back to Sherlock with a soft expression. “Thank you for listening, Sherlock. You’re not so bad after all.” After trying and failing to find a safe spot to pat Sherlock, Mycroft settled on a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

* * *

“Mycroft, all you’ve told me so far is a story of a very sad little boy,” John stated, with his tongue carefully rammed into his cheek.

“Bear with me, John, I promise you that you’ll want to hear this. Weeks and weeks passed on - “

* * *

Weeks and weeks passed on and Sherlock barely grew at all. Concerned, Mycroft took to spending more time in his room with the plant, tending to him with care, always making sure he had enough water and fertilizer, with plenty of sunlight and room to grow. It was safe to say that the boy had developed quite an attachment to Sherlock - much to Sherlock’s disdain. Mycroft even bought another plant, a topiary - angel ivory ring, Sherlock noticed - that he dubbed ‘Irene.’

“See Sherlock, I’ve got a woman friend for you. Won’t you grow?”

Seeing that Irene had no effect, and never caring all that much for the plant, Mycroft took both her and Sherlock outside to plant her in the garden. Sherlock was making his goodbyes when Mycroft turned his watery eyes to him, sighing and saying - apparently with great significance - “Oh Sherlock, I’ve done everything I can think of. Won’t you grow, for me? I love you, Sherlock. You’re my only friend.”

The strangest feeling came over Sherlock, as the world spun around him and he seemed to be floating up and away - much higher than his terra cotta home. What was happening? Mycroft stared blanky as a fully human Sherlock Holmes expanded right there in the garden, blinking slowly at the development of limbs and a mop of curly hair. Soon enough, there was a small child seated just where Sherlock the _didierea madagascariensis_ had been.

Mycroft, true to form, scooped the plant-child up in his arms, completely nonplussed, and bustled into the house. “Oh Sherlock, this is so very excellent! I can’t wait to tell Mummy!”

* * *

At this, John couldn’t contain his amused snort. It was only with the greatest of self control that he prevented a full-blown laughing fit. Nonetheless, Mycroft fixed him with a stern glare.

“John, honestly! That bit was important!”

“Why are you even telling me this story?”

“It’s not a story, John. You think you’d know by now my brother doesn’t waste time with such trivial matters.”

John started as Sherlock stepped out from the shadow of the door. “Wh- what?”

“Mycroft’s account is accurate. I am indeed a plant. Though, honestly, Mycroft, you think you’d remember how to pronounce _didierea madagascariensis_ by now. In any case, I think I can manage from here.”

“Sherlock, I was rather hoping this would be a private conversation.”

“Oh, and it will be,” Sherlock insisted, steering Mycroft out of the flat and slamming the door quite unceremoniously.

“I’m sorry about this, John.”

“Er.”

“I don’t know why exactly Mycroft found it necessary to tell you - “

“It- It’s true then?”

“Yes, John, I said that already!” Sherlock was positively exasperated. “Mycroft, through God knows what means, brought me into this life, and though I retain certain plantlike qualities, I am on the whole, human -”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the power of love?” John was giggling again - possibly slipping into shock, Sherlock would have to check later.

“Shut up, John. Anyway, I fear he found it necessary to divulge the information to you because of our progressing relationship -”

“Relationship!?”

“Shut _up_ , John. Likely he was searching for the most delicate way to tell you about pollination.”

“Pollination?” John had apparently been reduced to inane repetition.

Sherlock smirked at John, his eyes dancing playfully. “The birds and the bees as it were. Bees in particular.”

“You said you keep bees as a hobby - ?“

“Biological necessity, more like, but yes. Irrelevant for you to know, as I’m sure we have already had the necessary Conversation.” Sherlock gave John a significant look.

“Ah. Erm. Well. Anything else I should know?”

Sherlock sighed once more, throwing himself into his chair. “Not that I know of.”

“Ah.” John stood there, unsure of what to do or say. Was there etiquette for discovering that your best friend and love interest was, indeed, a plant? If there was, John had never been to finishing school, and he wouldn’t know.

“Erm... Tea?” Sherlock _hmm_ ’d, and John walked towards the kitchen. Hesitating near Sherlock’s chair, words rang once more in John’s head. _Progressing relationship_. John smiled, and let his hand fall to Sherlock’s hair, trailing down the side of his head and onto his shoulders, and continued forward.

Five minutes later, while John was pouring the tea, he heard Sherlock murmur sleepily.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“There may be one more thing you need to know.”

“Oh?”

“When I put down my roots,” Sherlock said carefully, his stare palpable on John’s back, “it’s for good.”


	2. Mycroft

“You, Sherlock Holmes, utter genius and mad man, believe in Santa Claus,” John said with all of the sarcasm he could muster, crossing his arms and carefully setting his tone to  exasperated.

Sherlock didn’t so much as blink as he turned the page of the case file. “Well, I have to,” he said. “He’s my brother.”

John really wished that this would stop happening.

* * *

The first call that had come in was obviously a fluke. _Santarchy all over again_ , Lestrade thought with a sigh. He decided to put one of the rookies on the case - drunken trespassing and attempted burglary, shouldn’t be too easy to cock up; Lestrade, though, was going home.

As Lestrade grabbed his coat and locked up his office, he thought happily of the white wine and warm body waiting for him at home. Life was good.

* * *

The old case was long since forgotten when Lestrade got the call two years later. The temptation was, of course, to hand it off to another division, but for some reason every other officer believed they could piss off just because it was Christmas Eve. Lestrade supposed he couldn’t blame them too much; he used to be the same way.

Lestrade looked down at his wedding ring and sighed. He should have taken it off by now, Carol would certainly have hers gone (probably had done for months) but--

He glanced up and around. Being alone in the office aside from the odd PC, he figured it was about time he go and interview the burglary victim himself.

* * *

“Miss Parker?” he asked, as he walked into the waiting room. There was a lone young woman sitting at a small table, a drink and a packet of crisps from the vending machine in front of her.

She glanced over at him as he entered, “About time,” she said, and he fought not to roll his eyes at her accent. “I’ve only been waitin’ here for fuckin’ ever.”

“Sorry about that, Miss Parker,” he began, pulling up a chair to sit at the table with her. “So about the burglary-”

“It weren’t no burglary,” she said, her tone dull and disinterested, and wasn’t _that_ familiar. “The bloke just broke in to leave things, yeah? I was just mindin’ me own business, comin’ home after work and I walk in and there’s presents on the table by the little Christmas tree, and then I look over and there’s this man just stood there in my kitchen eating the brownies I’d put on the oven.”

He blinked at her, momentarily stalled. “Are you saying-” he began slowly “that someone broke into your flat to leave you presents and eat your food?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Isn’t that what I just got done tellin’ you?” She looked away for a minute and held her stare up on the ceiling, seeming to take in a breath, the first sign during the conversation that she was at all bothered by what had happened. “But here’s the weird thing, yeah.” She waited another moment before shifting her gaze back down and staring straight into his eyes. “I know who I seen.”

“Miss Parker,  who did you see?”

“It was fuckin’ Father Christmas.”

* * *

After showing Andrea Parker out and browbeating his urge to laugh hysterically into submission, Lestrade once again took up residence behind his desk. It was nearing tea time, but he had to fill out the necessary paperwork, and get started on locating, as Miss Parker so delicately put it,  fucking Father Christmas.

After several hours of sitting behind his desk and feeling relatively useless, Lestrade was forced to admit that he was stumped. All lines of evidence led to nowhere, the office was nearing empty and Lestrade had to admit, he was the slightest bit lonely. Sighing, he tapped out a message to Sherlock.

_Mildly difficult case of Santarchy. Reverse-burglary. CCTV shows fuck all. Happy Christmas?_

Less than a minute later, Lestrade’s phone chirped, startling him out of his contemplation of his wedding ring, which had slowly migrated from his finger to the top drawer of his desk.

_Out. - SH_

Lestrade sighed, forwarding his earlier message to John.

_ Sorry, Greg, out with Sherlock. _

Lestrade frowned at his phone. Surely not?

_Afraid so. Dragged off to some holiday drivel. Still manages to be more interesting than your pathetic excuse for a case. Just go home, Lestrade. - SH_

Aha! Christmas indeed - Sally owed him twenty quid! Lestrade grinned at the text. Ah, but, _Just go home, Lestrade_. In some sort of Pavlovian response to Sherlock’s directives - the man practically had him trained by now, not that he’d ever tell anyone - Lestrade began packing up his work and headed home.

* * *

Sherlock sat with his body pressed firmly from shoulder to pinky toe to John, as John leaned into him reading the text he had sent. He sniggered quietly.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re a bad man.”

“Hush, John. It was going to happen anyway, we might as well get some fun out of it.”

“How long do you think it will take him to get home?” John scooted impossibly closer to Sherlock on the sofa, and Sherlock took a moment to assess his heartbeat before answering.

“Approximately 47 minutes, maybe 55, since it’s Christmas.”

“Hmmm.”

“John? Are you falling asleep on me?”

“Noo, m’just resting my eyes.”

“It would take minimal effort to get to your room.”

“Oh - “ John looked up at Sherlock, suddenly cautious. “Do you want me to - “

“No. No, it’s - it’s fine.” Sherlock smiled as John burrowed once again into his shoulder, saying softly, “Plus, we’ll pull up CCTV within the hour.” John shifted against him, his arm wrapping around Sherlock’s middle, and suddenly, Sherlock didn’t feel so much like dashing off to take the pancreas out from under the sun lamp. Instead, he felt very much like sitting with John wrapped around him, breathing softly into the satin of his shirt. That is, until they could pull up CCTV.

* * *

It was approximately 11:55 PM on Christmas Eve, after Detective Inspector Lestrade had climbed into bed with a bottle of beer and the biscuits he had intended to leave out for Father Christmas - so he was a stickler for tradition, sue him. With the flat as quiet and lonely as it was, however, Lestrade just found it all a bit too sad. He was halfway through the first biscuit when he heard a resounding crash from his kitchen. Bloody Hell, just one night off?

Cautiously, Lestrade climbed out of bed, grabbing his baseball bat from the floor, and made his way to the kitchen. Flicking on the lights, he found - no one?

Movement behind him. Quickly, without thought, Lestrade lunged at the shadowy figure, propelling both of them to the ground. His own harsh breathing filling his ears, Lestrade barely heard the amused drawl from below him -

“Well, Detective Inspector. Would you mind letting me up - only the suit wrinkles quite easily, and I do hate to have Steven iron - “

Spluttering, with a blush quickly climbing up his neck, Lestrade stayed put. He had frozen, it would seem. “Mycroft? My God...” 

“So it would seem.” Mycroft gave him a small smile, fingers wrapping delicately around the curve of his hip. Instead of pushing, however, Mycroft’s hands stayed put. Testing, experimenting? No, that wasn’t Mycroft’s style.  
__

_ Persuading . _

* * *

“Oh, ohhhh!” 

“Honestly, John, it’s not rubgy. Contain yourself.”   


“I can’t! Christ, this is priceless! I need to text him. Now.” John pulled out his phone, and Sherlock, arm around the shorter man, leaned over to read the text in a blink, before it sent.

“Unoriginal. Let me.” With one hand staying around John, tracing molecular structures along his spine, Sherlock shot off another, far superior, text to the Detective Inspector.

* * *

Lestrade and Mycroft were sitting on the rather dilapidated couch, in a silence that should have been awkward but somehow wasn’t. Lestrade heard two chirps from his phone, and was happy for the excuse to look away from the sight of Mycroft slowly peeling off the silky jacket of his red suit. Mycroft smiled. “Go ahead, I expect it’s my brother and Doctor Watson. I’ve always believed CCTV was far more entertaining than telly.”

_IIIIIII SAW LESTRADE KISSING SANTA CLAUS!_

_There isn’t anyone that’s going to keep me from calling you Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. - SH_   


Lestrade felt the blush returning to his neck, mixed with confusion at Sherlock’s text.  


“I believe my brother was referring to the song. He did always hate Christmas tunes, though, and I expect he found the poor grammar even more off-putting.”   


“Um?”   


“Yes, I’m Santa. Getting a little more clumsy nowadays - I try to blend in with the annual Santarchy but haven’t been quite as innocuous as I intended. Must look to pass off the title rather soon, perhaps the good doctor - well.” Mycroft smiled at him again, letting the revelation sink in.    


“Um. I’ll be right back.” Lestrade dashed off to his room, pinching himself firmly on the arm before returning barely a minute later. Holding out the tin, he asked hesitantly, “would you like a biscuit?”   


Mycroft smiled again, a private smile this time - not grim, nor condescending, but genuine. Lestrade wouldn’t call it jolly, but it warmed his heart all the same. “Thank you, Detective Inspector.”   


“Greg,” Lestrade insisted, sitting on the couch once more, turning down the light next to the sofa - the glare, of course.   


“Greg,” Mycroft repeated. His voice was not quite a whisper, but gentle all the same. “What do you want for Christmas?”   


Greg raised his head shyly, and looked right into Mycroft’s eyes.

* * *

Meanwhile, in 221B, John and Sherlock shared a kiss over a toast of champagne, and Sherlock forgot to sneer at John’s Christmas CD.

_ As long as there’s a holiday called Christmas  
As long as there’s a snowflake left to fall  
There ain’t nobody gonna keep true love from callin’ us  
Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. _

 


	3. John

Sherlock glared at the sun - ruining a perfectly rainy London day, with its bright light and currently shining spectrum of - 

“ _John!?_ ”

* * *  
Sherlock paced - frantic, perhaps more frantic than John had ever seen him, even more than in the throes of withdrawal, or in the midst of a case. It was disturbing, to say the least.

“John. John Hamish Watson. When exactly did you decide to hide from me - to not disclose - That is, why did you think it was permissible to -”

“Out with it, Sherlock, before you wear a hole in the floor.”

“Didn’t you - did you _not for one minute_ think it might concern me to know that you are - that you’re a -”

“Say it.”

Sherlock swung his body around to face John, staring at the man with a terrifyingly intense gaze.

“That you’re a rainbow.”

. . .   
John sighed, rubbing his forehead and determinedly not looking at Sherlock. It wasn’t as though it was a secret John had purposely kept from his flatmate-partner-boyfriend-plant. It just wasn’t exactly relevant.

“It wasn’t exactly relevant.”

Sherlock looked positively flabbergasted, a term John thought he might never apply to the man. John took the moment to  fully catalogue every feature, from the flaring of his nostrils to the rapid twitching of his right eyelid.

“JOHN!”

Of course, it couldn’t last.

Sherlock resumed his pacing and, in the interest of his own sanity, John got up to stop him, approaching Sherlock as he would a frightened animal or a keyed-up Private. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” he murmured, placing his hands on the detective’s shoulders and sliding them up and down his arms in what he prayed was a calming manner. “I’m sorry. It’s very personal for me, I didn’t know how you would react. I only did it today because I wanted to cheer you up.” John smiled hesitantly up at Sherlock.

“Do I look bloody well cheered up?” Sherlock snapped.

No such luck, then. John sighed. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry Sherlock, I’ve told you. Come on, let’s just sit down, yeah?” John expected resistance as he led Sherlock over to the couch, but it appeared that he was too shocked to even maintain his sneer.

"Are you alright, hm? Do you want some tea?”

“ _Do I want some tea_?” Sherlock growled, and John could practically smell the oncoming Sulk. _Defensive Manoeuvre Necessary. Act, Watson, act._

“Alright, alright,” John said hurriedly, sitting as close to Sherlock as he dared, and settling his hand in his hair. Sherlock lost an almost undetectable amount of tension. _Oh thank Christ. Just keep talking_.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you how it happened?” Sherlock hummed deep in his throat. It seemed a little less malicious than his previous noises, so John figured it was safe to continue.

“Well, it may surprise you to learn this, but one in every hundred thousand British children is actually born a rainbow.”

That this elicited no response from Sherlock was not a good sign. Well, best to soldier on.

“It’s a recessive gene, you know. Strangely, a few carriers have the ability to change at will. It’s hard to control during childhood, of course, but it can really be quite useful - “

Sherlock shifted to face John once more. “Did the army know?”

“What?”

“Your fellow soldiers, your superiors, did they know?” Sherlock so upset was frightening, but Sherlock deprived of answers was even more so.

“Well of course. The army attempts to recruit all rainbow children.” John failed to see why Sherlock was so enraged by this information. Unless - _oh_.

“They knew and you didn’t.” No response. “Sherlock - it’s not like I did it for them, not like I would do for you. A rainbow in the middle of the desert would look a little off, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Hmph.” Sherlock was no longer facing him. _Damage Control, Watson_. John sighed.

“I told you, it’s very personal. It’s a power the ranks occasionally find useful, but it’s not like I would go around flaunting it. I haven’t done it since before I went off to Afghanistan.”

Sherlock turned, curious. “Really?”

“Of course not. Even then, it was just to stretch my photons just in case this time was my last.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, seemingly returning from the brink of his Sulk, though by no means pacified. He blinked at John, almost humbly. _Almost_.

“So you did it this time... for me?”

John reached across the couch to grasp Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, you daft bastard. Of course. I intended for it to pull you off the couch, but, well...” John chanced another smile.

“Yes.” Sherlock sniffed. How someone could express so much disdain through such a simple sound would forever confuse John.

“Anyway, that’s pretty much all there is.”

“Is it?”

“Hmm?”

“Is that all that there is?”

“Well, I do also have a keen eye for spotting leprechauns.” Sherlock stared. “That was a joke.”

* * *  
In the weeks following what John privately termed “The Big Reveal,” Sherlock became erratic - well, more erratic - in his interactions with John - in conversation, at crime scenes, _bloody hell, even during sleep_! John had to practically head him off at every corner - of course he would try to experiment on John’s rainbowhood, but it simply wouldn’t do.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you a thousand times, I am not going to be one of your experiments. Not again.”

“But _John_ -”

“No, Sherlock!”

Sherlock huffed out a breath as his shoulders fell. John nearly felt guilty, but he had to stand his ground. “Listen, Sherlock. Why are you so fixated on this? I understand that it must be fascinating to you, but-”

“Fascinating?” Sherlock sneered. “No, I’d think not. It’s practically pedestrian.”

John sputtered. “Pedestrian!?”

“Why, yes.”

Sherlock threw himself unceremoniously upon the couch, vaguely waving his hand in the air. “Rainbowhood, John? As if I would be interested in such an incredibly _dull_ phenomena. It’s painfully obvious that your condition is of literally no relevance to my work - much like a cursory knowledge of the solar system - _don’t_ start.” Sherlock shot a look at John before pulling his dressing gown around his waist and hunkering down into the cushions.

John bit back his words, and instead blew out a short breath. Well then why was Sherlock so obstinate about experimenting on him?

There came a muffled muttering from the couch.

“What was that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned over with an air of open hostility. “I _said_ , I’m not experimenting on you, John. I promised you after Baskerville that I wouldn’t. Honestly, do you have so little faith in me?”

“Sherlock, that’s not what I - well, what the hell are you poking and prodding me for!”

Sherlock flushed, looking down at his knees, mumbling again. Sighing, John made his way over to the couch to join the man. Mood swings were becoming more and more frequent, and the least John could do was offer his company - or absence, depending. John settled himself close to Sherlock, a hand on his knee.

“I’m trying to _know_ you.”

It was almost enough to make John laugh, but it seemed painful for Sherlock to divulge this information, so John decided to take him seriously.

“Sherlock, you do know me!”

“Well then how did I not know you were a bloody rainbow!” Sherlock was a dangerous mix of anxious and royally pissed off. John sighed.

“So that’s what this is about, then. The past month, the four patch problems, making Anderson cry?”

“Yes, yes. Well, not the last one, but - yes.”

John touched Sherlock’s neck, gently pulling the other man closer. “Sherlock, there’s nothing more to know. You have all of me.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, nose nudging at the dark curls, inhaling the scent of his own shampoo.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Really?”

In lieu of a response, Sherlock got a sudden sense of disequilibrium, falling to his side on the sofa. Lying quite uncomfortably, heart beating painfully fast, Sherlock stared straight out the window, at the dreary London street, above which was John - his John - shining brightly for all to see.

But Sherlock knew, like he knew every molecule present in London soil, that it was all for _him_.

  
  


 

 


	4. Mrs. Hudson

Margaret Hudson lounged in bed, the floral duvet snug across her lap and Arthur’s shoulders. With a soft smile at the sleeping man, Margaret pulled a stack of papers from her nightstand and slipped her reading glasses over her nose.   


Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to evade resigning the lease for nearly a month. Honestly, it wasn’t as though he really had anything better to do - Margret suspected he only did half the things he did for the sake of being  difficult .    


In the distance, thunder rolled, and Margaret pictured her boys, running pell-mell through the rain, if only for the thrill. Sherlock and John were on a walk in Regent’s Park, no doubt strategically planned  for  the poor weather, as some depressive commentary on Sherlock’s feelings towards the holiday.   


* * *

Margaret, as usual, was nearly right. John and Sherlock had dashed through the downpour, running through the streets of London, hands clasped and laughing - searching for a place unseen by Mycroft’s many eyes. Gasping for breath and clutching each other’s sodden coats, they smiled and laughed with the perfection of it all. Their cold lips met in one of London’s gritty alleyways, and John thought that it really was so very _them_.

Sherlock was so enraptured, he didn’t even notice two bodies, staring and laughing with fingers interlaced - holding overlapping red and white umbrellas.

He didn’t notice much but John, at times like this.

* * *

Margaret smiled to herself, finishing her scan of the document as Arthur murmured sleepily, “Come to bed, Maggie.”

Margaret removed her glasses, setting them atop the completed lease, and snuggled under the duvet.

A moment later, a flash of lightning illuminated the bottom of the lease, still sitting innocently on her nightstand.

**Signature**  
 _Margaret Hudson_ \- 14/02/2015  
Landlady  & Housekeeper

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
